


Julian Week 2018

by SerenityLost



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Light Bondage, Masochism, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-03-31 12:56:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13975608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenityLost/pseuds/SerenityLost
Summary: Plague / Endearment / Pain / Blossom / Salt / Healing / Dealer's ChoiceA collection of ficlets about Julian Devorak, based on a short prompt for each day of the week. Julian Week is hosted bythearcanaweekon tumblr.





	1. Plague

Julian paced restlessly, back and forth, back and forth, running long fingers through his hair. There had to be something _more_ , something he was missing, something he had overlooked.

The wholly-insufficient ray of sunlight that fell through his small window was beginning to color and fade, the bars casting long, dramatic shadows across the cell. Another day nearly gone, another day without a cure. And he was beginning to think…

No. He stopped in his tracks, shaking his head vigorously. He couldn’t think that, he couldn’t give up. Not while so much, so _many_ , were depending on him. Lucio could go to hell, but Julian wasn’t about to let the rest of the city follow him there.

He swept back toward the small desk, covering the distance in less than two strides, and slammed his hands on its surface. He glared down, eyes boring into the mess of papers and tomes as if he could draw a confession from them by sheer force of will. There had to be something here.

A sharp knock on the thick wooden door made him jump, his focus broken. It was followed by the loud clang of metal on metal as a bowl of something-or-other was shoved through the small flap. His dinner.

Julian sucked in air through his nose and blew it out in a long gust, fluttering the loose edges of paper on the table. He closed his eyes. His hands were trembling. He should eat.

The food was horrible of course: mealy and bland, some sort of homogeneous porridge with barely enough nutrition to keep him alive. He ate quickly and tried not to taste it any more than he had to.

Once finished, he returned to the desk, the stirrings of an idea beginning to nag at his mind. It was probably stupid, _certainly_ dangerous, and more than likely wouldn’t work, but-

There was a metallic _thud_ behind him, a heavy key turning in a heavy lock. He spun to face the door. What…?

The hinges squeaked in protest as the door flung open. Dust motes flailed in the fading light as the air shifted. A guard stepped briskly into the small room.

“Count Lucio has requested your presence.”

* * *

He was ushered unceremoniously into Lucio’s quarters, flanked by two guards. The room was much as he remembered it - too warm, too gaudy, and smelling just a touch too sweet.

And there was Lucio, sprawled in his bed, only able to sit (mostly) upright by virtue of the headboard and a half-dozen plush pillows that supported him. He looked absolutely terrible, his face gaunt, his eyes plague-red and swollen.

The Count grinned at Julian as he entered, a wicked smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Jules! Come in, come in. It’s been too long.”

_Not nearly long enough_ , Julian thought, but plastered a smile on his face and replied, “That it has. I do hope you’ll forgive my rudeness, my lord. I would have stopped by earlier but I was, ah…detained.” His smile grew a little wider, proud of the joke despite himself, despite everything.

Lucio did not look particularly amused, his cruel grin unwavering. “And how is your research going? Surely you must have something for me by now?”

“I, ah… well. I have been working tirelessly, of course, and er -” Julian coughed nervously. “I- I’m afraid I still need more time.”

“Useless as ever,” Lucio sneered, his grin quickly morphing into a scowl. “But I knew that already.” He glared at Julian for a long moment, ugly displeasure coloring his plagued face.

Julian chewed his lip in worry. Why had the Count brought him here? What more could he possibly ask of him? He opened his mouth to speak, but Lucio cut him off before he could.

“I trust you have everything you need?” That wicked grin was back. “Your quarters are to your liking? You have-”

“Actually, I ah - it would be a great help if-”

_“Don’t interrupt me!”_ Lucio snarled.

Julian fell silent. _God_ , why did this man have to be so difficult?

Lucio cleared his throat weakly. “As I was saying. I just wanted to make sure that you’re comfortable.” Julian wasn’t sure, but it seemed that something in his expression grew even more wicked as he spoke. ”Are they feeding you well? How was your dinner?”

Julian waited a beat, but it seemed this particular question was not rhetorical. “Ah, well, the food is marvelous, of course. My compliments to the chef. Though if I’m being entirely honest, the bolognese could use a touch more parsley. Maybe a side of braised carrots?”

Lucio just grinned at him. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and-”

“You? Thinking?” Julian couldn’t help himself.

“- _and_ ,” Lucio continued, glaring, “I’ve realized something. I’ve realized that, despite _everything_ I have done to help you, you still lack the motivation that you need to cure this goddamn plague. And I’ve-”

“I can assure you, my motivation is-”

_CRASH._

Julian ducked just in time as a glass flew past his head, shattering against the wall behind him. Wine ran down the wallpaper like blood.

“I _told_ you not to interrupt me!”

Julian swallowed, frowning.

“Where was I?” Lucio rubbed at the bridge of his nose, just above where it crinkled in a snarl. “That’s right. I’ve decided that it’s time I take it upon myself to offer you the motivation that you need.”

That…didn’t sound good. Julian fidgeted and glanced around at the guards beside him. He found he had a distinct dislike for the direction this meeting was going.

“And that is why, though it _pains_ me so,” Lucio continued, grinning widely, “I have had your latest meal infected.”

Julian blinked, fixing his eyes on the Count. “You…what?”

Lucio’s expression dropped, all at once looking thoroughly annoyed.

“ _Infected_ , you slow-witted waste of breath. With the _plague_.”

Julian was…Julian was speechless. This had to be some sort of sick joke. Did he hear correctly? He worked his mouth in the empty air, grasping for words.

“I- you… _what_ did- how…I can’t- why would you…what is- what is _wrong_ with you??”

Suddenly his mind was racing. His meal was infected. He had eaten it, eaten all of it. But- but it wasn’t that long ago, really, maybe it wasn’t too late. If he could get his hands on an emetic - there was ipecac in the palace store…he could get it out of his stomach…

Julian’s feet began carrying him towards the door nearly of their own accord. _Maybe_ , if he could only…

“ _Hold him!_ ”

And then there were hands on him, dragging him back, a guard at each arm. He flailed against them, suddenly desperate, thinking only of what he could do, how he could _stop_ this…

It was no use, of course. His opponents were strong and well-trained, and in mere moments he was pulled down to his knees before the Count, arms hopelessly entrapped in the guards’ grip.

He was panting now, head down, staring wide-eyed at the ground before him. What the _fuck_ was Lucio thinking?

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

Julian grimaced and drew his gaze up to meet the Count, an almost painful feeling of disgust twisting in his stomach as he registered the lazy, smug smile on his face.

“It doesn’t really _matter_ , does it?” Lucio drawled. “Because you’re going to find a cure. That’s what you said. That’s what you _promised_ me.”

Julian had made no such promises. For all he knew there was no cure; it could very well be impossible. And if it was…Julian glared at Lucio as the dread began to well up within him.

If it was…then he would die.

He set his jaw, his expression ablaze as he addressed the Count. “This won’t help you. This won’t help _anyone_. The weaker I get, the less I’ll be able to- to study, to _think_ …to do anything. I’ll be useless to you.”

“Then you’d better hurry up, don’t you think?”

Lucio was still smiling, his eyes glinting with self-satisfied victory. Julian could argue with him all day, but…but it wouldn’t matter. The realization hit him in a wave of nausea. Despite his frantic mind, despite his desperate hope of stopping it, reversing it somehow…he knew. He knew in his gut that it was already too late.

“You…you’re _sick_ ,” he choked out.

“I am, Doctor Jules, I am. But now, so are you.”


	2. Endearment

His lashes fluttered open lazily, the early morning sunlight just beginning to warm the room, to dapple his features in golden hues. Julian shifted, turned, flinging his arm out to grasp at…at nothing? The space beside him was empty.

He groaned, loudly. Waited. There was no response.

He sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes, and looked around the small dwelling. Where had she gone?

Something glittered in his peripheral vision, catching his eye. There, on the nightstand, was...some kind of magic? A ball of light, twisting and shimmering with tangled rivulets in every hue, casting strange, colorful shadows on the surface beneath it.

Curious, he reached out, hesitantly brushing the magic with his fingertips. As soon as he did so, it dispersed with a soft _swish_ , leaving nothing in its wake but...what was that? A small slip of paper, folded neatly on the table.

Julian plucked the paper from its resting place and unfolded it with interest. A note, written in a familiar hand.

_“Good morning, my dear. I do hope you slept well. You look incredible, as always, but- oh! What’s that? There seems to be something caught in your hair.”_

A smile tugged at the corner of Julian’s lips. What was that woman up to? He reached up, running a hand through his hair. Sure enough, there was something there, another small folded paper, tangled firmly in his locks. He tugged at it, and with another _swish_ of magic, it came loose.

Deft fingers unfurled the new note, his eye darting eagerly over the page.

_“Ah, that’s much better. Now, you must be hungry, and don’t you dare try to tell me you’re not. Your breakfast is on the kitchen counter. I hope you like pumpkin.”_

Julian stretched languidly, grinning. He rose from the bed, setting the notes down on the nightstand before obediently making his way to the kitchen.

Once there, it wasn’t hard to spot what he was looking for. A carefully wrapped cloth bundle was sitting on the counter, smelling deliciously of pumpkin, and _mmm_ , it was still warm when he touched it.

He made short work of the wrapping, revealing a large, freshly-baked muffin that smelled absolutely heavenly. He worked his fingers through the cloth, but- hmm. There was no note.

Or so he thought, until he took a bite of the treat and nearly choked as his mouth came down around something that was decidedly not edible. He spluttered, sending bits of muffin flying and making a mess of the counter and the floor. He brought a hand to his mouth and pulled out the tightly-rolled note that he had nearly just eaten, then wiped roughly at his face with a sleeve to clear away the smattering of crumbs that covered him.

_“How’s the muffin? Good? Good. Now promise me you’ll eat the whole damn thing and then, and_ only _then, you can go open the front door.”_

Julian ignored the note’s demands (though he did take one more bite for good measure), and headed straight for the door. He pulled it open to find a bouquet of blue flowers on the stoop, their telltale eerie glow softened somewhat in the morning light. Deadly starstrand.

He picked up the flowers and returned inside with them, exploring the petals as he went, looking for...yes, there it was. Another note.

_“I know you like dangerous things, and damn, these are just so beautiful, aren’t they? Mmm, but of course, not as beautiful as you. Yes, yes! I know that’s cliché, but I don’t care._

_“Now, speaking of your beautiful face, it looks like you’ve got something on it, just there. Oh, you might want to take a look. There’s a mirror in the closet that might help you with that.”_

Julian ran his fingers over his face. God help him, if she had somehow managed to stick a note there without him noticing...but no, there was nothing but a few renegade crumbs from the muffin.

Mirror. Closet. Right. He set the flowers down on the counter and made his way to the small closet. He turned the knob, pulled open the door…

...and she came bursting out, all smiles and tumbling hair, catching his lips in a warm kiss before he even knew what had hit him.

“ _Hrmm_ ,” he made a muffled noise against her mouth and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close against him.

She broke the kiss after a long moment and grinned up at him, giddy mischief dancing in her eyes. “So. Did you figure out what was on your face?”

He groaned, anticipating the corny joke before she said it, but his objection was betrayed by the grin that took over his face. He couldn’t help himself; he loved it when she got like this.

She was already laughing, grinning from ear to ear as she kissed him once more, barely able to get the punchline out through her gleeful giggles.

“It was me.”

He laughed despite himself, tightened his arms around her, and crushed her mouth in another kiss. She brushed her hands along his face and tangled them into his hair, only to pull away once more. She locked her eyes on his, still smiling and breathless with laughter.

“Happy birthday, Julian.”


	3. Pain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Blood, Death

Julian shivered as the cool blade licked across his skin, teasing. The room was dark, he couldn’t see, but the metal against his chest grounded him, held him in this moment. He focused on the feeling of it, this weapon of death; so close to him, so dangerous. It made him feel alive. The _thrum_ of his pulse began to quicken, and he couldn’t help but gasp as the blade fluttered gently over his throat.

He was giddy with the taste of his own helplessness - he could almost feel it tingling on his tongue. Down on his knees, his arms bound behind him, the promise of pain in every kiss of metal upon his skin.

The knife bit. Cold metal became fire as it drew a line of blood across his shoulder. Julian hissed and squeezed his eyes shut, arching back against the wall as the pain struck. It demanded his attention; scorched away his thoughts. There was only him, and his shallow breath, and the fire dancing on his flesh.

But as soon as it came, the pain began to dull and fade. Faster than it should, faster than was fair. Oh, this healing was a curse indeed.

“Again,” he murmured into the darkness.

And again it came, the knife dipping into his skin, pulling him apart with such beautiful torment, leaving a hot trail of blood to drip down his collarbone. He let out a low groan as the sensation swept over him once more.

And once more, it faded far too quickly. He exhaled through his teeth, clinging to the ache for as long as he could. The dull, throbbing pain that lingered was splendid in its own right, but he wanted more. He wanted-

_“Aaghh!”_

His eyes flew open wide, a yelp escaping him in shock. There was a single moment, the barest breath of time, where he could feel it fully before the pain even hit him. The knife, long and deadly, lodged to its hilt in his gut. He gasped then, as a new kind of agony took hold of him. He wasn’t prepared for this, this wasn’t-

Stars erupted behind his eyes as the knife twisted, digging deeper, tearing through him with murderous intent. A mangled cry fell from his lips. It was too much, _far_ too much. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t think for the pain. He tried to pull away, tried to tear his arms from their bonds, but it was hopeless. He was trapped, helpless, _dying_.

“N-no- please...”

His head swam. Shapes began to appear in his vision, shifting and dancing and framed by a flickering orange light. A face emerged before him, a face he thought he knew...but then it was changing, mutating into something different, into- into…

Into Lucio, laughing.

He could feel the heat, then, rising in the space around him. The roar and hiss of fire nearby. Flames danced at the edges of his vision, drawing closer, licking eagerly at him and casting Lucio’s face in unearthly light.

As he watched, Lucio began to change. First was his expression, sliding like syrup from mirth into horror. His eyes sunk slowly into their sockets, and dark rings blossomed beneath them. His skin, at first so flush with life, began to pale and wither. Tendrils of red crept greedily into the whites of his eyes, blooming, spreading, consuming, until there was nothing else.

Lucio fell backward, splaying on the ground, suddenly weak, gaunt, with limbs like twigs scrabbling against the floor.

That was when Julian, still bound, still helpless, still in pain, saw _himself_ walk out of the fire.

Julian - the other Julian - towered over the weakened Lucio. He stared down at him with an expression so utterly devoid of emotion, so piercingly _cold_ that the fire itself shied away.

Julian knew in that moment what was going to happen.

“No, don’t- NO!” He struggled desperately against his bonds. He had to stop this, he _had_ to, he couldn’t let himself...it wasn’t right - not again...

The other Julian lowered himself to kneel beside Lucio’s frail form, his steely gaze unwavering. He reached down and wrapped long fingers around the Count’s throat.

“NO!”

Lucio’s eyes went wide, and blood began to seep from them, streaking down the sides of his face and pooling on the floor. He gurgled and sputtered, straining weakly against Julian’s grip. And then, just like that, he went limp.

Julian watched on in horror, unable to stop it, unable to do anything but tremble as hot tears stung his face. This wasn’t what he wanted, this wasn’t who he wanted to be.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whispered to the dead man.

The other Julian, the killer, the monster, drew his hand away from Lucio’s throat. He turned, his face impassive, and locked eyes - cold, dead eyes - with his other self. Julian felt the dread trickling down the back of his neck as the killer rose, eyes still fixed on him, and-

_WHAM._

Julian collided sharply with the floor.

He groaned, clawing feebly at the tangled sheets, shivering from the cold sweat that clung to his hairline. He took a long, shuddering breath.

His head was hurting, it wasn’t yet dawn, and he really needed some coffee.


	4. Blossom

“You can’t possibly think you’ll find anything useful in there. Those books are nothing but gibberish.” Julian cast a disapproving glance at the witch.

Asra was reclining in a plush chair, his head laid back on the armrest, his legs propped near-vertically against the tall back. His face was buried in a heavy, decorated tome with elaborate symbols etched across its binding.

At first Julian thought the magician had chosen to ignore him - but after a moment, he lowered the tome, just enough to peer out from behind it with twinkling violet eyes.

Julian felt the barest flutter in his stomach as those eyes caught his. It had only been a few days since the witch had arrived at the palace, but already Julian was beginning to find his presence...well, rather distracting.

Asra held his gaze steadily, his eyebrows just slightly raised. “Just because you don’t understand it, doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

“Well, now, I didn’t say it wasn’t _real,_ just that it- ah, it’s- well…” Julian trailed off. He was finding it difficult to hold the magician’s stare, and yet somehow couldn’t bring himself to look away.

“Useless?” Asra finished for him. It was hard to decipher his expression, what with his face mostly hidden behind the book. Of course, it didn’t help much that Julian was rather preoccupied with the way his snow-white eyelashes kissed the tops of his cheeks.

Julian tore his gaze away, shrugging and rubbing the back of his neck. “All I’m saying is I’ve never seen a magic spell bandage a wound or set a broken bone. Medicine is what’s going to stop this plague, not hocus-pocus. Uh...no offense.” He flashed his best grin at the magician in an attempt to offset the criticism.

Asra lowered the book fully, and Julian was rather relieved to see that he didn’t look particularly offended. In fact, there was a bit of a glint in his eye and a small smile on his lips as he stretched and righted himself, then wandered over to the desk where Julian was seated. He set the tome atop the doctor’s scattered pile of books and papers with a heavy thud, splaying it open with one hand.

“Look here. Tell me what you see.”

Julian raised a skeptical eyebrow at the magician, before quirking his lips into a smile. He _was_ quite pretty - what harm could it do to humor him?

He looked down at the book laid before him. On the page was an intricate diagram, surrounded by extensive notes that were punctuated regularly with strange, indecipherable symbols.

“Um, it looks like...a flower, of some sort?” Julian glanced up at Asra quizzically. Besides the unusual symbols, there was nothing in particular that-

Asra placed his other hand on the desk and leaned in. All of a sudden Julian was absolutely, acutely aware of how close they were, the magician’s compact form hovering over him; his shawl hanging loosely off his shoulders and brushing against Julian's coat; the barest hint of a soft floral scent wafting in the air around him.

“Look closer.”

Julian swallowed and obeyed, turning his gaze - with some effort - back to the tome before him. He leaned in closer, his shoulder brushing distractingly against the warmth of Asra’s arm as he moved, and did his best to focus on the page.

And this time, he saw something strange. At the center of the floral diagram, there was a spot of color. A deep, purple hue that he could have sworn wasn’t there before. As he watched, the color began to grow, bleeding across the page like spilled wine. It filled the image, coloring the flower’s petals, and then...

Julian drew in a sharp breath as the color began to bubble and rise, up, up, out of the page. It shimmered aqueously as it took shape, imitating the illustration it sprang from and blooming upwards like a fountain with form.

Julian was familiar with the concept of magic - he knew full well it _existed -_ but he’d never really seen it like this: unfurling right before his eyes, so close he could reach out and touch it. His eyes flicked up to Asra, then back down to the glimmering magic, then to Asra’s hand, still splayed across the book, his fingertips glowing with a warm light.

“You...you’re doing this, aren’t you? Is- is this supposed to impress me?” He was trying, and failing, to sound unaffected, but pushed on valiantly all the same. “It’s hardly...I mean, it’s just a trick, isn’t it? It doesn’t _do_ anything. What is this supposed to accomplish?”

He didn’t give Asra the chance to respond. As he spoke, he reached out toward it, his curiosity more powerful than his doubt. He extended one long finger to poke at the vision before him - and nearly jumped out of his seat as it responded, shooting a trailing vine of liquid light to coil rapidly around his finger, smooth and cool against his skin.

Startled, Julian pulled back, jerking his hand free with a sharp tug.

And that was when he heard Asra laugh. It was a brilliant, carefree sound, chiming through the air like birdsong. Julian looked up at him, embarrassment coloring his cheeks, but couldn’t help but wonder at the sheer expression of joy on the magician’s face.

Asra looked down at him, catching his gaze.

“I think it likes you.”

His violet eyes danced, playful and kind, as he fixed the doctor with a luminous smile.


	5. Salt(y Bitters)

Kori gagged, coughing violently and spitting the drink all over the table.

“Holy hell, that is _disgusting,_ ” she choked out, eyes watering and throat burning from the offending liquid. “How do you _drink_ that?!”

Julian snickered, his face splitting into a wide grin. “They’re a bit of an acquired taste, I’d say. By which I mean: the more you’ve had, the better they taste. But, ah…” He waggled his eyebrows at her, teasing. “...perhaps we should order something sweeter, if this is too much for you…?”

She coughed again, glaring at him. “Are you implying that I can’t _handle_ my unnecessarily-disgusting liquor?”

“I would never,” he scoffed, feigning offense.

Kori held his eye, scowling, and dragged her sleeve across her face, swiping messily at the remains of the Salty Bitters that drenched her jaw. She wasn’t one to be outdone. Keeping her gaze locked on his, she lifted her tankard back up to her lips. Her nose crinkled at the proximity, but she swiftly pinched it shut with one hand. Then, determined, she began to drink.

She tipped the mug back, further and further as she downed the vile liquid, her throat bobbing in rhythm with each swallow. The taste of it was utterly _foul,_ making her eyes burn as it went down, but she forced herself not to care - right now, she had something to prove.

Julian’s eyebrows crept steadily higher as he watched her. Her eyes finally broke contact as she tipped her head all the way back, mug raised high, to chase the last few gulps of her drink.

She slammed the mug down on the table in victory, her eyes gleaming and a grin plastering her face even as she began to cough again.

Julian watched with his mouth ajar, slightly impressed and entirely amused. “Well that’s...one way of doing it. Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” she replied, wiping at her eyes and letting out a small laugh that could only be described as a cackle. “Your turn.”

“Ohhoho, no. I think if I tried that, I might actually die.” He took a measured swig of his own drink, grimacing. “Maybe _after_ I’ve had a few.”

She smirked, her expression triumphant. “That’s cheating.”

“Well, if I have to cheat to match you, then so be it.” He flashed her his best smile, all mischief and teeth. “Besides,” he continued, swirling the liquid in his mug, “this one is nearly empty.”

“Tsk, tsk,” she tutted, “well that just won’t do.”

She matched his grin, leaned over the table, and hollered, “Bartholomew! Another round!”


	6. Healing

“Illy! Illy, look what I can do!”

Ilya looked up from the book he was buried in. Sunlight streamed through the canopy above him, casting faint, dappled shadows across his face. A light breeze - the faintest touch of impending autumn - whisked through the leaves and toyed gently with his hair. He turned to seek out the source of the voice, and what he saw scattered his easy mood in a heartbeat.

“Hey! What are you- Pasha! Get down from there!” Ilya jumped to his feet, his reading forgotten, and scrambled over toward his sister. Not that he could reach her. Pasha was perched on a large tree branch, fully standing and teetering precariously back and forth, several feet above ground.

She giggled, her voice bubbling through the air. Before Ilya could make any further objections, she leapt. Arms outstretched, laughter trailing in the wind, she tossed herself through the air toward another, higher branch.

“Pasha, no!” he cried, helpless to stop her. She was so small, she couldn’t possibly make that jump, she-

Pasha’s hands came down around the branch, gripping as she swung wildly with the momentum. She laughed again as she hung tight.

“See, Illy? I told you! Look at me, I’m a monkey!” The branch bobbed gently with her weight. She shifted her grip, turning and swinging her little legs up toward the tree, scrabbling against its trunk to bring her feet toward the branch, and-

“Ow- ack!” Pasha slipped suddenly, caught herself for the barest moment, let out a low wail, and fell.

Ilya, beneath her, reached up in alarm. She came tumbling down, a wild mess of flailing limbs, and crashed violently into him, knocking the wind out of him and driving them both down to the forest floor in a rough tangle of arms and legs.

Breathless, Ilya scrambled to right himself, fear tugging at his insides. “Pasha, Pasha! Are you OK!?” He pulled his sister into his arms, steadying her as best he could and leaning her against the trunk of the tree. The whimpering, wailing sound that came from her, steady and low, made his heart seize. He ran his hands over her face, looking for injury. Tears flowed free and easy down her cheeks.

“Oh, Pasha, oh… I’m so sorry. Are you hurt? Show me, it- it’s going to be OK, OK?”

Pasha snivelled and held out her hand, tipping it palm-up so Ilya could see the bloody gash that marred her skin. He was relieved to see that it wasn’t very deep - but still, it didn’t exactly look pleasant.

He took her hand softly in one of his, brushing at the tears on her cheek with the thumb of the other. “It’s OK, Pasha, it’s OK. Is there anything else? Anything broken?”

She shook her head, biting back a sob. He checked her over carefully, and when he was satisfied that she had no other serious injuries, he nodded and rose. “Stay here, I’m going to get my bag.”

Ilya dashed back over to where he had been sitting, hastily retrieving his belongings. The two of them had been out since morning, partly playing, partly exploring - and partly collecting wild herbs for cooking and home remedies. He was sure he had something in his pack that could help.

He returned quickly to Pasha’s side, pulling out his waterskin as he went. He knelt and took her hand in his once more. “Alright Pasha, I have to wash it out first. It might hurt a bit - I need you to be strong right now. Can you be strong for me?”

She bit her lip and fixed him with bright eyes. Tears were still running down her face, but she nodded, determined.

He uncorked the waterskin, tilted her hand at an angle, and poured a stream of water across the wound. Pasha whimpered softly, but didn’t pull back.

“Good, good, that’s better.” He spoke softly, reassuring.

Pasha wiped at her face with her good hand, smiling at him a little despite the tears. “You’re gonna be a really good doctor one day.”

Ilya frowned and looked down, shaking his head. “I’m not going to be a doctor.”

“Yes you are!” she replied stubbornly. Then, unsure: “Don’t you want to?”

He opened his pack and began rummaging through it, looking for the wound-root they’d harvested earlier. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

Pasha was quiet, and when he glanced up at her face her expression was solemn. Her tears seemed to have stopped, though her cheeks still shone with their wetness.

“Is it because of what Miss Kuchma said?” Pasha crinkled her nose. “Don’t listen to her, she’s smelly.”

Ilya laughed at that, shaking his head. “She’s right, though. You need money to be a doctor. You have to go to school for it, get the training, the certificates…”

He pulled a small, dark root out of his pack, twisted off a small piece of it and then, after a moment’s consideration, popped it in his mouth and began to chew. The root was supposed to be boiled and mashed into a salve for use, and, well, he didn’t exactly have the time or the tools to do that here. Besides, he’d seen healers do this with other herbs - it would probably work just fine. He hoped.

“I’m gonna climb the whole tree one day, you know.”

He looked at her, at that entirely stubborn, determined expression. It seemed she was hardly bothered anymore by her wound. Ilya spit the freshly-chewed root into his hand and shook his head.

“Don’t say that, Pasha. You’re only going to hurt yourself again.”

“No,” she said forcefully, pouting. “I got hurt, but I’ll get better. And then I’m gonna try that jump again, and I’m gonna make it. And someday I’ll get all the way to the top.”

She winced as Ilya began spreading the chewed root-mush over her cut. He was shaking his head, opening his mouth to object, but she wasn’t done yet.

“And if I get hurt again, that’s OK, because I have you, and you’ll make it better.” She stared at him, trying to make him understand.

“Of course I will, if I can, but-”

“And you have me,” she interrupted. “So you can get better, too. Even if Miss Kuchma knocks you down.”

He blinked at her.

“I, uh...I- well…” He could feel a smile tugging at his lips. She wasn’t going to let it go, was she? Maybe she even had a point.

“Alright,” he allowed.

Ilya tugged his scarf from around his neck and began wrapping Pasha’s wound. He could bandage it properly when they got home, but for now, this would be enough.

Eyes still on him, she nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You’re gonna be a great doctor someday.”


	7. Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Death

It was raining. How appropriate.

Clouds shifted restlessly in the afternoon sky, scattering sunlight into a soft, white haze. The murmuring sound of falling water bounced off the dusty cobblestones, the sides and roofs of crooked buildings, and the heads and hoods of the crowd as they gathered in the broad square. It mingled with the uneasy shifting of feet and the quiet whispers of anxious conversation, swallowing up voices and movement and making the huddled masses seem softer, muted, like they were watching from across a great distance that couldn’t be breached.

The rain was working its way through his hair, dampening auburn locks and trailing wet paths past his ears and down the back of his neck. He looked up, closing his eye and letting it patter across his face. It felt good - cool and tingling against his skin. If he cried, no one would see.

He could hear, vaguely, someone speaking. The announcement, the indictment, the condemnation. He didn’t listen; it didn’t matter. Not any more.

Instead, he looked out across the crowd. It really was a sight to see - on another day, he might have laughed. Dozens, maybe even hundreds of people, all decked out in their grandest costumes and adorned with elaborate masks of every imaginable variety. Some were draped in heavy coats, but many were ill-equipped: they pulled gilded scarves over their heads and hoisted long skirts up off the increasingly muddy ground. Others simply stood there, heedless of the rain, peering through their false faces in anticipation of the spectacle that would soon unfold.

Julian shifted, and felt the wooden planks creak beneath him, protesting his weight. He clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to restore some feeling in his fingers. It was of little use - the rope that bound his wrists was tight, digging painfully into his skin, and the wet chill of the rain wasn’t helping.

A brush of red amongst the crowd caught his eye. He looked - and wished he hadn’t. Pasha was cloakless and drenched in rain, her hands plastered over her face, water flowing through her fingers in swift rivers. He knew they were tears, despite the rain - he could see her shoulders heaving with heavy sobs. He looked away.

She shouldn't be here. She shouldn’t have to see this. He wished...well, it was too late now.

A hand wrapped around his arm, pulling him, pushing him, leading him forward. His legs felt numb, but he walked all the same, dutifully taking his place before the crowd. _Obedient,_ he thought. Then, _why was that funny?_

He looked out over the huddled masses before him. They came here for a party - most of them, at least. Instead, they got this.

...well, not _instead,_ exactly. There would still be a party. He wondered absently what that would be like. An execution and a masquerade. A fatality with festivities. Dinner and death.

His eye wandered, coming to rest once more on a face that he knew. Her gaze met his, her bright eyes dimmed through the rain, peering out stoically from beneath a heavy hood.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and he found, somehow, that he didn’t blame her.

It was half his fault, anyhow. He told her he might have done it - and she believed him. He told her he had darkness inside - and she believed him. She wasn’t a detective, or a judge, or a jury, she had said - she was just a woman, doing a job.

He felt something brush over the crown of his head. It dropped down past his face and landed gently on his shoulders.

A rope. The noose.

Strong hands brushed the back of his neck, making him shiver. They pulled at the rope, tightening it, drawing it close against his throat. He swallowed, and felt it shift on his skin.

The executioner backed away, leaving him alone to face the crowd. On display for all to see. The murderer, the betrayer, the treasonous doctor who killed their Count.

And for the very first time, he hoped he had done it.

He knew he could have; he knew he was capable. He might have, he _must_ have.

He deserved this. He had to deserve this.

Julian closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

The executioner pulled the lever.


End file.
